


this terrible anatomy will surely get the best of me.

by skeletonannie



Category: Carmilla (Web Series)
Genre: Gen, nooooo, smol, tw torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-22
Updated: 2015-09-22
Packaged: 2018-04-22 23:08:25
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 769
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4854119
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skeletonannie/pseuds/skeletonannie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>'we all have our suicide missions, don't we?'</p>
<p>or</p>
<p>carmilla is an awfully smol, sad vampire.  (Save Her)</p>
            </blockquote>





	this terrible anatomy will surely get the best of me.

You’re a monster; of this, you are quite aware.  You are a monster, mother’s glittering girl.  You don’t deserve the gentle soft love of a headstrong nineteen-year-old with a crooked grin—not then, and certainly not now. 

  
    So you leave, because you are not the hero of this piece.  You are dirty, a rotting pit; you weren’t made for these heroic gestures, this pedestal, this adoration.  You were made for darkness and broken wrists, bent spines; you were made for death.  You were made  _from_  death.

  
    There is no thudding heart beneath your ribs, but something there aches anyway.  Some phantom throb.  You don’t know how to make it stop.  

  
  
Mattie doesn’t gloat when you arrive on her doorstep.  She softens, her strong jaw clenching as she traces your cheek.

  
    ‘My diamond girl,’ she murmurs, and you try not to flinch.  Stone cannot love flesh; you knew this all along.  ‘Come inside,’ and you stumble over the threshold, Mattie’s strong hands catching you, before you bury your face in her neck and  _sob_.

    ‘Mircalla, love,’ she hums into your hair.  ‘We are not like them; we are not so soft and gentle.  Surely you must remember the delicacy of such weakness; you must know we cannot touch them without also having to watch them break,’ and you do, because for seventy years you drowned in it, again and again.  You pretended you did not know it was Elle’s blood you were choking on.  You pretended she was not quite so close.

 

-  
  


You wake to the sound of screaming more often than not.  It’s not yours—it’s never yours.  It’s instead years and years of warzones rumbling above you, the screams of those young boys being torn apart by metal, human ingenuity, savagery; it’s Elle; it’s Laura; it’s Perry; it’s your little sister, lying on the glittering marble floor slick with her own blood, one tiny hand trying to hold in the mess of her chest.

  
    But it’s never your own.  You don’t know what this means.

-

 

Those idiots in the Summer Society and the Zeta fraternity have—for some ridiculous reason—begun hunting all supernatural creatures on campus.  You gave Danny a  _very_  ironic look, but she just shook her head, muttered, “can it, Dead Girl.”  So.

  
    You know little Laura thinks you’ve been on a blood rampage, terrorizing the coeds and whatnot, but.  God, she’s so indignantly  _idiotic_  sometimes.  As if you would go on a  _killing_   _spree_  after  _dying_  for some tiny gay human.  As  _if_.  Mattie rolled her eyes so hard when she heard of Laura’s assumptions you thought she was having a seizure.

  
    “What you see in her is beyond me, Calla.  She’s so….righteous.  All the time.  It’s exhausting.”

  
    You nod, slurping on another blood bag you two had spiked with whiskey.  It wasn't your best idea, but the slow burn was worth it—anything to get her sad, disappointed face out of your head.

  
    “Yes, well.  Don’t think I forgot about that young man in Moscow, in the ‘70s.”  You raise an eyebrow, a desolate smirk twisting your face.  “We all have our suicide missions, don’t we?”

  
    Mattie grimaces, covers her eyes with an elegant hand.  “Don’t remind me, Calla.  Good lord, that was….even for Maman, that was gruesome.”

  
    You snort.  Mattie doesn’t know about the coffin, not really.  No one does.  It’s more the stuff of legends, aging myths that nobody believes anymore.  Because surely, no one has ever made it out of that punishment alive—or sane.

  
As far as Mattie knows, you were tortured for your insubordination.  As far as anyone knows, your torture ended when they shattered the last bone, when they hammered the last nail into your wrists and ankles and hung you from that cross made of silver.  And even that, your kind doesn’t believe—it’s too savage, too gruesome, too  _much_.

  
    So you don’t tell Mattie, about the bombs or the broken crooked wrists or the taste of her blood as it slowly went rancid.  You don’t tell her about the muffled screams of those dying boys above you.  You just shrug, say, “It was, wasn’t it?” sip more blood.  Pretend your hands don’t shake when you think of the cubby LaFontaine and Laura have readied for you.  Pretend you’re the stoic, brave vampire Laura wants you to be.

  
    Mattie passes you a cigarette, exhales through her nose.  “We are a different breed, Mircalla, made for better things than this…pagan flop house.  Just wait, darling,” another heady exhale, “and I will show you sights so fantastical you’d think you had finally managed to die.”

**Author's Note:**

> from an anon prompt on tumblr :
> 
> ‘hey! i was wondering if you could write about the hollstein breakup because i noticed you hadnt said much on it…also, if you could include mattie/carmilla sister bonding that would be great!! :)’ 
> 
> im not thrilled abt this bc it made me sad. fuck this give my salty winter adult good things. she smol.


End file.
